(Ed: This was a scheduled post and should be the last of the ones written about Grace in Practice pending new insight.)
When Zahl talks about imputation in the theological sense, he doesn't divorce it from a "practical" sense. (I must parenthetically insert that I have come to really dislike the word "practical," because more often than not someone is using the word to oppose theology entirely, as though theology is an ivory tower above the knife-work of practical application.)
The vertical practice of grace in imputation has God saying things about us that aren't true, but are made true by virtue of the Word applied to us. The horizontal practice of grace involves our willingness to impute to others what is most certainly not true of them (according to Zahl).
Zahl's argument here is that the horizontal practice of imputation has similar effects to the vertical practice, albeit in a different way. Law works as a mirror to show our inadequacies at fulfilling a standard, while grace applies the fulfillment of Christ to the believer's account.
Zahl continues that we are enjoined to bend this imputation out horizontally. This is a pretty revolutionary thought for me. Think about the way this works for a moment.
No, really, just think about it.
In Zahl's scheme, we are to impute to others righteousness even when they have wronged us personally. (What a far cry this is from the law of Hanlon's Razor, one of my favorite and heretofore most often used defenses against ad hominem.) This is a tremendously difficult thing to do, even in the best of circumstances, and it flies in the face of all of our instincts. The instinct is to shut off, shut down, close away, incarcerate—in other words, to apply the law to the offender.
But the grace that works in us to achieve what it says is the Word that we ought apply to others. In the experience of my friend whose parents provided always the "Yes, but," the practice is to provide the "Yes." In the experience of the friend who hears only Law, it is the practice of hearing Grace instead—even when the speaker is not speaking very graciously.
Zahl's contention is that by bending the vertical expression of grace in imputation horizontally, we will achieve the same effect. I suppose the only way to find out is to try.
I don't think that Zahl is really concerning himself as much with the so-called first use of the law, which is the use that tells us the difference between right and wrong, and so on.
In recounting his story of driving drunk and getting in an accident as a teenager, Rod Rosenblatt remarks that his father showed him a converting moment of grace. Rod was crying and disheveled, and he knew that what he had done was wrong. His father did not berate him or hit him with the law; instead he just said, "Well, I guess we're going to need to get you a new car."
The story, he says, always engenders different responses, many of which are angry. That's a ridiculous way to handle the situation on the face of it, and I think I'd agree. Rod says, however, that it was in that moment that he became a theist.
I think it goes to the point that grace really is personal, and that it is applied personally. The law is uniform in its declaration of right and wrong, but grace is applied non-uniformly in the sense that it is situational.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
The Gospel and the Revelation of God
We begin, again, with the ten-word summary of the gospel: God revealed in the person and work of Jesus Christ.
The first two words, "God revealed." I think the most natural place to explore this is in Psalm 19, which I quote here to pad my word stats; if you're one of those who have memorized it, then by all means skip ahead; the pertinent verses (1, 7, 12) start the paragraphs quoted:
There are three paragraphs here, and so three observations.
First, "The heavens declare." That is to say, the heavens reveal. It is worth noting that they reveal God's glory. This is, I think, very nearly the same as saying that they reveal God himself. When Moses is on the Mountain, he says to God: show me your glory. God interprets this as a request to see his face, and says, "No man shall see my face and live."
God is hidden from us by our sin. God is inaccessible to us. Eternal life is inaccessible to us. (Why? Because eternal life as defined in the gospels is to know God and his Son, Jesus Christ. Separation from God is therefore tantamount to eternal death.) Irenaeus picks this up in his famous argument.
Against the hiddenness of God, however, "The heavens declare." They reveal. So God is not entirely hidden from us. The question, of course, is precisely what is revealed of God in the heavens, here I think a synecdoche for all creation.
Romans tells us that creation reveals God's "eternal power and Godhead" (1:20) and his wrath (1:18), but nothing is mentioned of solutions to this problem. The heavens daily tell us of God's power, but also proclaim his judgment. They are the vast expanse of Damocles' sword, suspended by gossamer threads of who knows what.
The second stanza in Psalm 19, and therefore my second observation, begins with "The Law of the LORD." At first glance, we may be tempted to assume that it is somehow disconnected from the first stanza in point of view. In fact, it continues the same thought: the revelation of God.
The second stanza is a hymn of praise to the law: a complete, exhaustive, desirable tool for warning and making wise. It completely discloses the righteousness of God and prescribes a right way of living, a purported solution to the wrath of God. It warns of judgment, the punishment for failing to live this standard.
One might think that this special disclosure from God—one that is not provided by the heavens—would be sufficient to answer the underlying question of how one is supposed to avoid God's wrath. Yet we find that the law, while true and good, does not actually provoke in us the good it intends. Rather than bringing us closer to God, it separates us further from him by showing the depth of our sin and even inciting us to do worse. Rather than justifying, the law condemns. Indeed, a law was never given that could give life (Galatians 3:21).
It is for this reason that the Psalmist finishes with the third stanza, and with it comes the third observation. His prayer is that God keep him from presumptuous sins (for which the only penalty under the Law was death; there was no sacrifice for willful sin) and an admission that none can understand his secret faults. He admits first that even if one were to follow the law, he could not know the extent of his own sin. He admits second that apart from God's help, it is impossible to avoid willful sin. He, too, is under wrath, and has no recourse the hope that God will find his prayers acceptable.
We are left with the uncomfortable, nay terrifying, realization that both natural and special revelation are insufficient to avoid the wrath of God. (Compare with Hebrews 2:15.) Creation testifies to God's righteousness, and the law makes it explicit.
In whatever capacity we approach the gospel, we cannot avoid this. From an outward-looking perspective we may be stunned by the beauty of creation; we may be thrilled by the execution of justice (the end of A Few Good Men always gives me goose bumps). But as soon as we look inside ourselves, we know that we are worthy of punishment. The brutality of nature will overwhelm its beauty, and meeting justice for ourselves is not as nice as meting it out for others.
No presentation of the gospel can get around this. The gospel begins with the admission that God is hidden away from us and will judge us, and that we have no solution. We cannot and must not begin any other way.
The first two words, "God revealed." I think the most natural place to explore this is in Psalm 19, which I quote here to pad my word stats; if you're one of those who have memorized it, then by all means skip ahead; the pertinent verses (1, 7, 12) start the paragraphs quoted:
1 The heavens declare the glory of God, and the sky above proclaims his handiwork. 2 Day to day pours out speech, and night to night reveals knowledge. 3 There is no speech, nor are there words, whose voice is not heard. 4 Their measuring line goes out through all the earth, and their words to the end of the world. In them he has set a tent for the sun, 5 which comes out like a bridegroom leaving his chamber, and, like a strong man, runs its course with joy. 6 Its rising is from the end of the heavens, and its circuit to the end of them, and there is nothing hidden from its heat.
7 The law of the LORD is perfect, reviving the soul; the testimony of the LORD is sure, making wise the simple; 8 the precepts of the LORD are right, rejoicing the heart; the commandment of the LORD is pure, enlightening the eyes; 9 the fear of the LORD is clean, enduring forever; the rules of the LORD are true, and righteous altogether. 10 More to be desired are they than gold, even much fine gold; sweeter also than honey and drippings of the honeycomb. 11 Moreover, by them is your servant warned; in keeping them there is great reward.
12 Who can discern his errors? Declare me innocent from hidden faults. 13 Keep back your servant also from presumptuous sins; let them not have dominion over me! Then I shall be blameless, and innocent of great transgression. 14 Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in your sight, O LORD, my rock and my redeemer.
There are three paragraphs here, and so three observations.
First, "The heavens declare." That is to say, the heavens reveal. It is worth noting that they reveal God's glory. This is, I think, very nearly the same as saying that they reveal God himself. When Moses is on the Mountain, he says to God: show me your glory. God interprets this as a request to see his face, and says, "No man shall see my face and live."
God is hidden from us by our sin. God is inaccessible to us. Eternal life is inaccessible to us. (Why? Because eternal life as defined in the gospels is to know God and his Son, Jesus Christ. Separation from God is therefore tantamount to eternal death.) Irenaeus picks this up in his famous argument.
Against the hiddenness of God, however, "The heavens declare." They reveal. So God is not entirely hidden from us. The question, of course, is precisely what is revealed of God in the heavens, here I think a synecdoche for all creation.
Romans tells us that creation reveals God's "eternal power and Godhead" (1:20) and his wrath (1:18), but nothing is mentioned of solutions to this problem. The heavens daily tell us of God's power, but also proclaim his judgment. They are the vast expanse of Damocles' sword, suspended by gossamer threads of who knows what.
The second stanza in Psalm 19, and therefore my second observation, begins with "The Law of the LORD." At first glance, we may be tempted to assume that it is somehow disconnected from the first stanza in point of view. In fact, it continues the same thought: the revelation of God.
The second stanza is a hymn of praise to the law: a complete, exhaustive, desirable tool for warning and making wise. It completely discloses the righteousness of God and prescribes a right way of living, a purported solution to the wrath of God. It warns of judgment, the punishment for failing to live this standard.
One might think that this special disclosure from God—one that is not provided by the heavens—would be sufficient to answer the underlying question of how one is supposed to avoid God's wrath. Yet we find that the law, while true and good, does not actually provoke in us the good it intends. Rather than bringing us closer to God, it separates us further from him by showing the depth of our sin and even inciting us to do worse. Rather than justifying, the law condemns. Indeed, a law was never given that could give life (Galatians 3:21).
It is for this reason that the Psalmist finishes with the third stanza, and with it comes the third observation. His prayer is that God keep him from presumptuous sins (for which the only penalty under the Law was death; there was no sacrifice for willful sin) and an admission that none can understand his secret faults. He admits first that even if one were to follow the law, he could not know the extent of his own sin. He admits second that apart from God's help, it is impossible to avoid willful sin. He, too, is under wrath, and has no recourse the hope that God will find his prayers acceptable.
We are left with the uncomfortable, nay terrifying, realization that both natural and special revelation are insufficient to avoid the wrath of God. (Compare with Hebrews 2:15.) Creation testifies to God's righteousness, and the law makes it explicit.
In whatever capacity we approach the gospel, we cannot avoid this. From an outward-looking perspective we may be stunned by the beauty of creation; we may be thrilled by the execution of justice (the end of A Few Good Men always gives me goose bumps). But as soon as we look inside ourselves, we know that we are worthy of punishment. The brutality of nature will overwhelm its beauty, and meeting justice for ourselves is not as nice as meting it out for others.
No presentation of the gospel can get around this. The gospel begins with the admission that God is hidden away from us and will judge us, and that we have no solution. We cannot and must not begin any other way.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
The Practice of Imputation (Part I)
(Ed: This ran as scheduled. One more post is in queue and should be published on 26 January. Posts on the gospel will be forthcoming, Lord willing.)
I've been gleaning a lot from Paul Zahl's Grace in Practice lately. As I've noted before, he really is pretty Lutheran in some of the things he says. (I suppose one of the advantages of his Anglicanism is that he can be opportunistic theologically.) For my part, I do not actually know all that much about Lutheran doctrine, but it sounds to me in the book as though he describes something of the doctrine of the word: that God's word creates the realities it speaks.
This is kind of a subtle point. Perhaps better said, I have a hard time communicating it well.
But Zahl makes the point (as I've written before) that the law is both prescriptive and descriptive. It prescribes behavior by saying what we should do. At the same time, it describes us: we know by looking at the prescriptions of the law that it is good and that we are not. The law not only fails to create in us the goodness it prescribes, but it also incites in us the evil it proscribes. If the law says, "Don't eat," all I can do is think of eating. We can see the shadows of law in the First Command.
Grace supersedes the law. It does not prescribe, for that has already been done; it agrees that what the law says is good. It is also descriptive, because it admits that the mirror of law is accurate: when I look at myself in the mirror of the law, I admit my shame along with the Psalmist (Ps 119:5). Grace, however, also describes the solution to this problem. The Law describes God after a fashion, because it tells us about his righteous standards. It provides a window of his expectations. But it does not give us much in the way of mercy (this is the devastation of Hebrews 10:26ff).
What grace does is to also describe God from the standpoint of how he has addressed the problem of sin, how he has fulfilled the righteousness of the law in us. This is brought out in the way that he "justifies the ungodly" (Ro 4:5). That phrase should really give us pause, because it sets in opposition two things: ungodliness and justification.
Many in the Protestant circle look at justification as a legal ("forensic" is the two-dollar word for this) word that describes our relationship to God as set right with respect to the law. What this can sound like is that God is really lying about the kind of people we are: we are actually horrible filthy sinners, and God lies about that when he justifies.
This "lie" is what Zahl terms imputation. God transfers the righteousness of Jesus Christ to the believer, accepting the righteousness of Jesus over and against the unrighteousness of the sinner, whose guilt is fastened to the cross.
But since we are sinners (the law has shown us that over and over again, and it continues to do so!), why isn't this a lie?
The answer that Zahl gives, which I think we see in Luther first, is that God's word accomplishes what it states. It is creating the very thing it says. When God says, "Let there be light," there is light. The act of saying and the act of creating for God are one and the same. Imputation works in a similar manner: when God calls things that are not as though they are (Romans 4:17), he creates them.
There is therefore in the word of grace a creative principle that is absent in the law, one that evokes in us the thing that it says of us. Therefore when God justifies the ungodly, he is in the act of declaring just, making just. An interesting thought.
I've been gleaning a lot from Paul Zahl's Grace in Practice lately. As I've noted before, he really is pretty Lutheran in some of the things he says. (I suppose one of the advantages of his Anglicanism is that he can be opportunistic theologically.) For my part, I do not actually know all that much about Lutheran doctrine, but it sounds to me in the book as though he describes something of the doctrine of the word: that God's word creates the realities it speaks.
This is kind of a subtle point. Perhaps better said, I have a hard time communicating it well.
But Zahl makes the point (as I've written before) that the law is both prescriptive and descriptive. It prescribes behavior by saying what we should do. At the same time, it describes us: we know by looking at the prescriptions of the law that it is good and that we are not. The law not only fails to create in us the goodness it prescribes, but it also incites in us the evil it proscribes. If the law says, "Don't eat," all I can do is think of eating. We can see the shadows of law in the First Command.
Grace supersedes the law. It does not prescribe, for that has already been done; it agrees that what the law says is good. It is also descriptive, because it admits that the mirror of law is accurate: when I look at myself in the mirror of the law, I admit my shame along with the Psalmist (Ps 119:5). Grace, however, also describes the solution to this problem. The Law describes God after a fashion, because it tells us about his righteous standards. It provides a window of his expectations. But it does not give us much in the way of mercy (this is the devastation of Hebrews 10:26ff).
What grace does is to also describe God from the standpoint of how he has addressed the problem of sin, how he has fulfilled the righteousness of the law in us. This is brought out in the way that he "justifies the ungodly" (Ro 4:5). That phrase should really give us pause, because it sets in opposition two things: ungodliness and justification.
Many in the Protestant circle look at justification as a legal ("forensic" is the two-dollar word for this) word that describes our relationship to God as set right with respect to the law. What this can sound like is that God is really lying about the kind of people we are: we are actually horrible filthy sinners, and God lies about that when he justifies.
This "lie" is what Zahl terms imputation. God transfers the righteousness of Jesus Christ to the believer, accepting the righteousness of Jesus over and against the unrighteousness of the sinner, whose guilt is fastened to the cross.
But since we are sinners (the law has shown us that over and over again, and it continues to do so!), why isn't this a lie?
The answer that Zahl gives, which I think we see in Luther first, is that God's word accomplishes what it states. It is creating the very thing it says. When God says, "Let there be light," there is light. The act of saying and the act of creating for God are one and the same. Imputation works in a similar manner: when God calls things that are not as though they are (Romans 4:17), he creates them.
There is therefore in the word of grace a creative principle that is absent in the law, one that evokes in us the thing that it says of us. Therefore when God justifies the ungodly, he is in the act of declaring just, making just. An interesting thought.
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